The crew shouted to Ulf, “Land! Land!,” but the gale snatched away their voices. They hauled on the oars anew; they wrestled with the sail. The angry waters were full of white spray, and the knarr pitched and tossed, timbers groaning in protest. The Golden Dragon was a distant shadow in the gray ocean.

Eyvind gripped his oar, knuckles white. He looked up into the storm-split sky, and the rain fell hard and punishing onto his face. I did not want to come here, Thor. Surely the god must hear his warrior, even in this desolate corner of the world. You know how it is for a fighting man. I obeyed my chieftain; I went where I was bid to go. But I am loyal. Guide us safely to shore, Warfather! Let us not come to grief on these skerries, nor be wrecked against these rocks. Bring us whole to landfall. We are your Wolfskins, and will serve you while we have breath in our bodies. Save us for a noble death in battle, not a futile end, adrift without purpose. Thor, aid your sons!

He waited. If Thor did not help, he thought, then no god would. Odin was a trickster, clever and unpredictable; he was difficult to please and his games were only for men who thrived on risks. Freyr had a temper. If one offended him, cataclysmic events might ensue: tempest, flood, drought, sudden maladies striking crops or men. With his power over the elements and seasons, Freyr could bestow plenty or famine. He appreciated a sacrifice, but even a fine bull might not be enough to calm his rage. Thor was different. Thor thought in terms any man could understand: life and death, friend and foe, courage and cowardice. He rewarded loyalty and despised treachery. Thor understood a warrior’s heart.